


Recollections

by Nishitzu_Hayes



Category: Crysis Series (Video Games)
Genre: Craving, Dreams, M/M, Mutual Pining, Partial Insanity, Sexual Tension, There is some mention of torture, finding a loved one, loads of what ifs, very vulgar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 20:03:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18534526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nishitzu_Hayes/pseuds/Nishitzu_Hayes
Summary: {This belongs to a bigger work, can be read as a standalone}A collection of situations featuring the three major points of view in the Crysis series.This is a window into Psycho, Prophet and Nomad's minds.





	1. Longing

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of short ideas I plan to insert in another (longer) fanfiction I'm currently writing.   
> As a headcanon for the third chapter, I assumed Prophet could replicate his mutation on both Psycho and Nomad (who is in a very dire situation).

Claire was important, for him; meeting her had been a turning point in his life.   
Not a temporary comfort, but a lasting hope of forgetting.   
Letting go of what could never be returned to him.    
Psycho believed in this, firmly and with all his heart; however, it wasn’t that easy, to erase those memories he never wanted to experience again.   
It’s wasn’t comparable to simply erasing a blackboard, but fuck it, he wold try; unfortunately, the fragments, the moments he had once cherished, had lodged themselves inside his brain, as vivid as the instant he had lived them.   
Burned forever in his heart and in his mind.   
So he kept on reliving them, and each time it hurt him more than the last, eating away at his sanity.

  
There were times when he laid with her, when he was inside her, that images emerged from the back of his mind, superimposing on reality; it wasn’t her face he saw, but Nomad’s, and it wasn’t her heat he felt, but Prophet’s.   
A ghost of his boss back flat against his, the delicious heat seeping into him in rhythm with their thrusts; underneath him, accepting him, Nomad was beautiful, mouth agape, panting, pleading, his cheeks rosy and sweat that made his thick black hair fall around his eyes.   
Those dark eyes glazed and full of lust.   
On those times, his name on Claire’s lips had the sound of Nomad’s voice, and his grunts seemed to echo Prophet’s in his mind.   
During those times, he realised with desperation, he was harder and usually came faster, stronger, appeasing Claire at the price of sinking his soul deeper into an illusion that he would never be able to experience again.   
He missed them, missed the way Nomad would hold him, bearing his release, and the way Prophet would fill him, strong arms around them, supporting as they came down from the orgasm; he desired to be held and to hold, but that was a wish impossible to grant, and so he buried himself in the easy life Claire offered him, and with his heart closed and his eyes almost devoid of hope, he marched on.   
  
The day Rasch called him, it was a day like any other, or at least to him who had nothing more to lose; but as he soon would find out, things were about to change again, and there was no turning back.   
  
When he heard Prophet’s voice in his ear again after what could easily be a lifetime, or at least had been for him, he nearly came, his cock so hard it ached; it was exactly as he had recalled it in his mind, in his sleepless nights when he had wanted comfort and in his moments with Claire, when it had rudely intruded, exciting him until he was wild and almost out of his mind: Prophet’s timbre was low, a little coarse and so full of authority it made him feel weak in the knees for all the things he reminded him of.   
However, he had no time to waste being lost in fantasies, and gathering what was left of his willpower, he took charge and pushed his task force across the middle of the ship and under the pouring, icy cold, rain;  he instructed everyone with precision, to give the men that had come with him to retrieve the “hardware” a chance to get out of that operation in one piece.   
That, though, left him alone with Prophet as the soldiers scattered to secure an escape route; Psycho tried in vain to convince his own body to not react to Prophet’s presence, failing miserably after only few minutes, as his member which had gone soft under the stress and the cold rain, was starting to harden again.   
Guilt crawled up his spine and poisoned his already battered heart; he already had Claire…true, the history between him and Prophet -and Nomad, but the kid wasn’t there in front of him now- had been important, and left a lasting impression in him, but that simply couldn’t, or shouldn’t, have mattered anymore now that he was tied to another.   
Both his brain and his genitals disagreed.   
If he had to be completely honest, he had imagined more than once what it would be like to meet Prophet again during the years: he had managed to conjure up different situations and different scenarios, which in the end turned out the same, stupid way; yet his creations just didn’t do him any justice and couldn’t carry over his aura of power and raw strength.  
In that moment, alone in close quarter with Prophet’s imposing presence looming over him and his warm -too warm, how the hell was he so warm?- suit (or body?) practically plastered against his back, the only thing Psycho wanted was to beg Prophet to fuck him raw right there, behind enemy lines, being killed while doing it suddenly not a priority anymore.   
‘Cause he wanted, and he was, oh, so thirsty for his body.   
Psycho had to physically slap himself while Prophet was busy downing enemies to snap himself out of that lust frenzy; guilt once again wracked his mind and soul, sending his emotions into disarray.   
He had to say it, he had to say something about him and Clair out loud, or he would have completely forgotten about her by the time they both got out of the C.E.L.L facility.   
  
  



	2. No Longer Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prophet is challenged by two things: being too human to not care, and...not being human enough to get what he really wants.

The first time Prophet had heard about the relationship between the regional commander -Claire, right?- and Psycho -his Psycho, the last time he had checked- he had felt an overpowering anger settling over him; he had felt betrayed in some manner, as well, but the anger had prevailed over every single other emotion.  
He shouldn’t have felt that way, he knew that: after all he had been the one to make the decision of sacrificing everything, from his sanity to his life, to save the planet…and that had meant he had to give up Psycho, had to lose Nomad without hope of bringing him back, had to disappear, to leave everyone behind; so really, he shouldn’t have let anger take roots, he was aware of that, but he was so disoriented, and weak, inside that shell that separated from everything on the outside, that he couldn’t help himself.  
Suit or not, he was just a human.  
So he stayed angry, irritated and diffident; and when he saw with his own eyes, or well, his visor, how Psycho -Michael- had run to embrace the petite girl with auburn hair in front of him, he had felt hurt; Prophet had felt surprise too, in feeling a stab of pain in his heart, his chest constricting against his will: he would have never thought he would feel something like that again.  
The suit protected him from the outside, but what was on the inside, the human with his soul and his ephemeral emotion, was a whole other story…which Prophet, in his invulnerability, had almost forgotten about.  
  
For a moment, he had even thought Claire was good for Psycho; in his crazed mind, he had thought himself a cancer the girl could cure Psycho from…that, until he saw the video in the skinning lab.  
That stupid, stupid girl…she ruined everything: she still could’ve come clean, times and times over, and she didn’t, irredeemably breaking Psycho’s trust, sending him over the thin edge he was already leaning over; but Prophet, in some manners, understood her and her twisted reasoning, for he once had to take the same painful route, and so he still tried his best, tried to explain, but Psycho didn’t want to listen.  
  
And it hurt, again and again, as his once companion, _partner_ , took out his pure wrath on him, the resentment in his words stabbing truth after truth in his invulnerable body; it didn’t matter that Prophet couldn’t die, or that he had died once already, when Psycho turned his back on him, after having accused Prophet of not caring, of not being human anymore, Prophet felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he could die all over again.  
  
Because he wasn’t human, but he wanted desperately to be.


	3. Say my name...and bring me back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they finally find him, he is no longer who they expect him to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, in this shot I assume Prophet can replicate his mutation on both Psycho and Nomad.  
> Psycho, to make him stronger, Nomad...for other reasons.
> 
> The first sentence is taken from the song Say My Name, by David Guetta, Bebe Rexha & J Balvin (as it was of some inspiration)

“Say my name, say my name…if you love me let me hear you”  
  
When Nomad finally woke up from his deep regenerating slumber, he was barely himself: his body sure had healed nicely, thanks to the now free nanites and the alien DNA he had inside him, but his psyche was a whole another thing; half insane and mostly blind, lonely and victim of his rampaging emotions, Nomad tried to sit up and ground himself, find an anchor where to start rebuilding his fractured self.

  
Suddenly, as he propped himself up on the bed -or slate?- where he was laying, there were hands, warm and gentle, careful, on his skin; the contact, although he still couldn’t see to whom those hands belonged to, sparked something inside him, something primordial, something that had been hidden for the long years he had been alone. He was so terribly hungry and thirsty he realized: not for food or water, his stomach wasn’t empty and his throat wasn’t parched…it was a different kind of thirst, of hunger; it was almost instinctual, it was ancient and new at the same time, it was totalizing, he could breathe it, and it winded him, like a punch, like a hammer to the chest.  
He desired, he wanted, he needed…Nomad just didn’t know what.  
The hands on his body moved, - too many to belong to a single being, he noticed- , still kind and delicate, and although the sensation somehow partially quenched Nomad’s craving, it still wasn’t enough; growling like an animal Nomad turned, his movements snappy, urgent: he needed to know who was there, and if they could help satiate himself, because he couldn’t bear it anymore, couldn’t stand anymore of that torture.  
  
Far in the back of his mind, some resemblance of sanity suggested that he had been needing for long, that those emotions weren’t something new, that he had missed someone, but he just wouldn’t have it; it didn’t matter now, he wanted a solution, not another problem.  
  
When the faces he was looking for so frantically finally revealed themselves before his lidded eyes, his vision still unfocused and glazed, whatever trace of coherent thought in his mind screeched to a halt; it just wasn’t possible, the CELL bastards who had captured him had shown him the files, authentic and gruesome in their reality: Psycho’s final moments as he was skinned, screaming and cursing, and Prophet’s death to annihilate the Ceph threat.  
He remembered clearly how learning of their demise had broken him, crushing any rebellious streak and killing him before CELL even started experimenting on him.  
And yet, here they were, -real or not he really couldn’t discern when he was barely sane-, right in front of him, like ghosts of a past Nomad believed lost forever; that made him even more restless, his hunger deepening, his skin crawling with something akin to a profound tremble, his core shaken, shivering, almost jumpstarted back to life.  
  
He lunged forward then, directly in their arms, half expecting to fall down and into nothingness, too convinced that his scrambled psyche was playing cruel tricks on him, but they caught him without hesitation: both Psycho and Prophet were real, solid and truly there, and Nomad had no option left but believe it, now that he was safely held in between them; he wanted to cry, he desperately needed to, to purge himself of all those negative thoughts, of all the filth CELL had fed him over the time he had been their prisoner, but his body had other plans.  
  
It almost moved of his own accord, and as Nomad conscious mind watched, his own hands reached outward and up, pulling Psycho -who was the one currently facing Nomad- down and against him, Nomad’s lips finding the other’s without wasting even a single instant; then and there Psycho and Prophet froze for a heartbeat, barely the time to blink once, thinking whether Nomad really wanted this or not, but as a moan escaped the younger man’s throat, they both discarded their doubts and threw caution to the wind.  
  
So, as Psycho was returning Nomad’s kiss, their exchange suddenly heated and sloppy, all tongue and teeth, Prophet wound his arms around Nomad’s hips and pulled his back flush against him; they all had been wanting, they realised, as the touches finally gave them a little peace, let them breathe freely.  


As Psycho released Nomad’s mouth, gasping for air, Nomad, far from satisfied, twisted his body to an odd angle to reach behind him and kiss Prophet as well; Prophet didn’t need convincing, and his lips instantly found Nomad needy ones, taking charge, slipping his tongue into the other’s mouth, licking him, the kiss far more powerful and orderly than the one Nomad had exchanged with Psycho.  
At that display Psycho grunted, half laughing, his hands reaching for Nomad’s chest, his fingers caressing, mapping skin, insistent and affectionate; Nomad moaned at the ministrations, the sound shallowed by Prophet unrelenting mouth.  
They were already achingly hard, agony rippling through their bodies as the heat and the strokes they were sharing were not enough to even remotely satisfy the desire wracking them.  
It was messy, as they moved one against the other, adjusting, shifting like one, unique, being, so that Prophet could reach Psycho and finally kiss him, too.  
«P-please» gasped Nomad, after some time «Inside, now» his voice scratchy for not being used, his words fatigued, barely there, stuttered out, pushed from his vocal chords by willpower alone; Psycho and Prophet looked at each other above the younger’s head, and smiled, before Psycho shushed Nomad, who was visibly at his limit, both in body and in mind «Sssh, sweetheart, we know» and with that, while Prophet was kissing Nomad’s neck and twisting one of his nipples, making him squirm and scream wantonly, Psycho slipped his fingers inside Nomad’s tight entrance.  
At the intrusion inside him, Nomad whimpered, but he adjusted quite fast, as his new body helped him, indulging him and igniting his desire, as his partners readied him; soon, the little pain he had felt in the beginning was replaced by pleasure, and Nomad arched, squirming in Prophet and Psycho’s arms, asking more, ordering, cursing.  
«Say our names» commanded Prophet, his lips glued against the shell of Nomad’s ear, as his fingers joined Psycho’s on the inside; Nomad obliged immediately, the low timbre of Prophet’s voice which made him convulse, as he practically yelled out their names, repeating them like a prayer, volume rising and falling as his partners were scissoring him, curling their digits against his soft walls.  
He needed it, they all knew.  
As soon as he was close to coming, Psycho and Prophet’s fingers left him, and Nomad almost cried at the loss; he felt so empty, so cold.  
However he didn’t have to go on alone for long, as the rubs that had made him feel so full and complete soon where replaced by Psycho and Prophet’s erections in turn; they thrust into him, feral, dominated by lust, unhinged, bruising him, burning themselves into him and by that, returning him to his original self, anchoring him.  
He called their names again, and again, and again until he had no more voice left.  
  
He had needed them for so long that he had almost forgotten how it felt to finally feel…”normal”, “intact”.

  
Their heat seeped into him, melting the ice that had blocked his core, closing him, trapping him into his madness; they were one, they moved like one, they felt pleasure like one.  
When they came, Nomad flat on the pavement, body weak and bruised, with Psycho above him and inside him, his skin glistening with sweat, and Prophet who was towering over them both, absolute and strong, almost unphased if it wasn’t for his eyes, so lustful and vital, plunged deep inside Psycho’s heat, they did together, as one, their thirst suddenly quenched, they hunger sated as if they were one being and one soul.  



End file.
